


Reiterated Promises

by TroubleScout



Category: Veronica Mars (Movie 2014), Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 19:23:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18079439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TroubleScout/pseuds/TroubleScout
Summary: AU: Turns out Veronica and Logan enjoy tattoos.





	Reiterated Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for LV AU WEEK 2019. Day 1 prompt: “Come back to me.” / “Always.”

Well, it took him a good number of years, but Logan finally succumbed to his squad’s, and hilariously Weevil’s, razzing about his un-inked skin. The Navy and body art have a long and storied history, but it really seemed like Logan was set to eventually retire without that kind of tale of his own.

“What would I get?” he used to say to me, always followed by some variation of, “An eagle soaring across my back? A giant star-spangled flag rippling in nonexistent wind on my chest? You in a saucy pin-up number with ample cleavage emblazoned on my—?” Then he’d pause with a twinkle in his eye and say, “Hold on a second, I may need to rethink this,” but he was never serious.

And truthfully, I was always sort of selfishly glad for his disinterest. I loved his sun dappled, freckly skin just the way it was. I also secretly didn’t want him branded by the Navy any more than he already was. I worried enough about the dangers of his career, I didn’t need another visual reminder in addition to the buzz cut. 

But then a funny thing happened though, it was me who got properly buzzed with my pals and stumbled into a tattoo parlor in the middle of the night. 

Whoops-a-daisy. 

It was two tours ago now when somehow post-case victory drinks with Mac and Weevil turned into Weevil getting grilled about his body art. Mac was toying with the idea of getting a tattoo herself and wanted to know if he could recommend anybody. Turned out his friend Snake, real name Pablo, had a shop just around the corner so we meandered our way there. 

We were casually browsing designs lining the walls when Snake busted out his needles mid-conversation and cornered poor Mac expectantly, “So, whatdya want?” 

Her eyes grew round with fear. “Oh, I wasn’t— I mean, I was just doing research— I’m not sure—,” she stammered. 

Logan had been deployed for 4 months at that point and the cherry on top? He’d been radio silent for 2 weeks. In a boyfriend-sick daze of beer and longing, I had stared at the sheets of nautical designs populating the back corner, making a decision, shocking as it was. 

“I’ll get one.”

“Uh, Veronica?” Mac hedged.

Weevil managed to looked simultaneously dubious and impressed. “You sure, V?”

“Yup. One tramp stamp. Lay it on me!” I insisted ebulliently, making my way to the chair.

“What are you going to get?” my friends asked and I mildly slurred, “That’s for me to know and you to neeeever find out.” 

I even whispered my choice to Snake and made Mac and Weevil do an about-face so they wouldn’t know the location of this intoxicated decision either.

My faith in Snake was a bit shaken when he’d said, “You know that’s not actually where a tramp stamp goes, ay chica?” but I soldiered on.

“I feel like if Wallace was here this definitely wouldn’t be happening,” Mac mused nervously. “Please don’t be pissed in the morning that I didn’t stop you from branding Tweety Bird on your ass or whatever the hell it is.”

“I sorta always pictured something featuring a lightening bolt. You know, ‘cause of the taser?” Weevil shared and I scoffed, “Hey, eyes on your lock screen pal! Quit picturing.” Weevil happily checked the time on his phone with a smile, staring at Jade and Valentina’s grinning faces, and I undeniably envied him.

“It’s gonna hurt,” Snake reminded me as he poised the needle.

“No kiddin’. I heard from a F · R · I · E · N · D, these things ‘got licked on by kittens’.”

“Last chance to chicken out.”

I didn’t hesitate, “I like my choice.”

It was a tiny anchor just inside my hipbone, deep Navy blue to boot.

—

When I told Logan about it via Skype a week later, I was pretty nervous about it. He’s never been judgmental about things like this, but in the sober light of day I had this momentary panic where I thought he might hate it. Or at least not love it on me. 

Boy, was I wrong.

His eyes bloomed like mainlined something, but a good rush of blood to groin will do than to you. It was a satisfying reaction to be sure, but more than that, I desperately adored how befuddled and touched he seemed to be at the mere concept the tattoo would have anything to do with him.

“But an anchor’s a Navy thing?” he said stupidly and I blushed.

“Well, my honey is in the Navy you know. Flies fancy jet planes and everything.”

“You don’t say.”

I wouldn’t show him the tattoo either, even though he practically begged me. Actually, there was no “practically” about it. He did beg me.

“Just _imagine_ it,” I told him with a feral grin.

“ _Veronica_.” His voice was like molasses in his throat. Syrupy and warm. I loved it.

“Come home to me. You can see it then.” I told myself I wasn’t trying to incentivize him, but I was lying. It was shameless blackmail, through and through.

“You expect me to fly straight with that mental image rattling around?” 

“You better. If I lose my anchor, I'll be permanently adrift.”

It might have been the most directly-indirect thing I'd ever said to him, so of course the screen immediately went blank from a failed connection. My reaction was torn between, "Fucking Navy!" and "Thank goodness!".

Intimacy issues? Who, me?

—

I was pretty fond of the inky mark myself. I took to stroking the tiny anchor when I thought of him. It became a strange touchstone, maybe worry-stone, definite erotic zone. I couldn’t wait to feel his hands run across it, his mouth, his tongue, his teeth; then dip lower. Imagining him going down on me — below _it_ — got me through some serious masturbation mental blocks during some tough nights.

And then, when he finally did get home, coincidentally he took to rubbing it absentmindedly himself. I really don’t think he even knew he was doing it most of the time and I didn’t point it out because I was afraid he might stop. It was so soothing and such a turn on at the same time. It literally became difficult not to just grab him by the wrist and shove his hand down my pants early on. A couple of times, I admit, I didn’t find the restraint. 

It’s a good thing no one goes to movies 3 months post release date except the formerly deployed. Disappearing on Hunter and my mom at Legoland on the other hand? Not marked by such desertion. Neither was the beach at midday, but what can you do?

—

It would take nearly another year to execute, but as it turned out, our mutually discovered affection for my body art inspired Logan to seek out some of his own…

A little help from Weevil sourcing an artist and two weeks before his last tour he came home with his inner forearm bandaged, just below the elbow. I'd snatched it up in my grasp, fearful he had hurt himself. When I’d seen the multitude of color beneath a clear wrapping, I’d exclaimed in panic at the sight: “What’d you do to my pretty skin?!”

His eyes were warm and sweet and he gave me a bashful shirk. “Reiterated a promise.”

“What promise? When did you promise me a _permanent_ bird? I feel like I’d remember that.”

“It’s a swallow. It always comes home.”

Of course, like any reasonable person, I proceeded to scale him like a jungle-gym.

After, we lay in bed. He laid on his side in silence, casually fingering my hip with a sigh.

“What?” I asked.

He smirked, “Just lamenting how tattoo-representation-of-me has much better living quarters than I do.”

“Well you can live in my pants if you want, but you’ll have to stay home to do it.”

He groaned loudly, clearly disgruntled, and hauled me to him.

I gave him a smile, asking, “Did I win yet?” knowing I hadn't, but smug all the same.

He rolled his eyes and looked to the ceiling, “I don’t want to go.”

But I knew the truth, “Yes you do.’

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

—

Post deployment, I’d barely gotten a chance to get used to seeing his first ‘Sailor Jerry’ style tattoo in person before he’d up and gotten another. A mirroring swallow on his other forearm — as was tradition upon a sailor’s safe return.

And now, post tattoos, Logan’s penchant for rolling up his sleeves has become even more tantalizing to me than it already was. His body art is a proud declaration of love and loyalty and dedication — to himself and to me — creeping out from under his hems on the regular. Tattoos had always been intriguing, but now, on him, the’ve become this extraordinarily potent catnip.

It’s a boring, chore-filled Sunday afternoon and I’m drying the dishes while he washes, but suddenly I feel like I’ve stepped into some paperback, bodice-ripping romance… Everything is raising my blood pressure… The wax on, wax off motion of his arm. The way he flips the sponge from the soft side to the scrubby side and then back again. The way the little muscles in his forearms twitch and jump beneath his skin, beneath the tattoos. All the while bathed in the golden light of the setting sun filtering through the bay window. It’s all driving me crazy and I feel hot and flushed and my thighs ache from clenching. Enough is enough. 

I throw down the towel. “Logan, you’re going to have to stop doing that.” My voice comes out gruff and he glances at me confused.

“Doing what?”

I gesture to his arms like it's obvious and he sees his cuff has gotten soaked. He assumes this is what I’m referencing and he pushes his sleeves up higher, past his elbows. They strain against his biceps as he continues to work. His tattoos now on full, unobstructed display, I huff. I’m officially breathless and frustrated. “Okay, crap." I take the metal mixing bowl he's offering me and drop it on the countertop with a noisy, swirling clang. 

He looks at me concerned, but I just steal the sponge out his hand and chuck it in the sink while forcibly turning his hips around to pin him against the counter, his multicolored forearms dripping wet like a newly prepped surgeon.

“Honey, what’s—?” 

I proceed to place the little stool I use to reach to upper cabinets in front of him and kneel, very determinedly dislodging his belt buckle intent on freeing him. His mind has whiplash, but his body reacts quickly.

"Why the hell did I ever resist tattoos?"

"Beats me."

**Author's Note:**

> This still feels a little schlocky to me in some places, but I figured if I didn't publish now, AU week would be over. I hope you enjoy!  
> Any and all feedback would be much appreciated! x


End file.
